


Willing

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Consensual, Erotica, Gentle Sex, Graphic Description, Happy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:51:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1702121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And, as if I needed to reset to my own norms, this is NOT kink, though it is erotica and probably soft porn with low-key plot and a lot of character development. Yet another fantasy of a first time for Mycroft and Greg: Greg's POV. Pretty non-kinky unless you're inclined to see M/M as kinky in the first place. I don't, but that's me. The "extreme" element of this one is just two men taking some big emotional risks. More detailed than my norm. Technically it's probably the most detailed of anything I've written, I guess, though it's still not gritty.</p><p>It's been a hard, hellish week for both of them. Bad enough that Greg turns down an assignment from a weary, addled Mycroft, saying all he wants are some simple pleasures followed by a good night's sleep. To his and Mycroft's equal surprise, Mycroft makes sure he gets them.</p><p>If this worked right it's sexy, sultry, sweet as hell, and kindly. That's the intent, in any case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Willing

A podfic of this story has been recorded by the lovely aranel_parmadil and can be found [here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1944777)  She did a great job, and did it with my full approval. Go take a listen!

 

“No, Mycoft, I am not ‘available for a bit of work,’” Lestrade snarled into his phone, hearing rawness and weariness. He pulled it back, then. “Sorry. Sorry. It’s just been a bugger of a week. I’m tired, I’m already running on vapors, and all I want…” his voice hitched again, in tired yearning, “is a cab home, a curry, a hot shower—and in my dreams a willing bit of totty and a good night’s sleep. In just about that order. If this is an emergency, then, yeah, I suppose I could give you a hand. If not, for the love of God, give a man his Friday night off.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone connection. Lestrade, reviewing what had just tumbled out his own mouth, flinched. “Sorry. That was inappropriate. I apologize. But, really, Mycroft, I’m just that knackered.”

“No apologies needed,” Mycroft said, in a milder voice than Lestrade had expected. “And understood.” For a moment the other man’s voice wavered, too. “It’s been a complete bitch of a week on my end, too. I’ll assign someone else. It’s not life-or-death—I just called the first person I thought of whom I’d trust with the assignment. Look, I’m making a call, now—one of my cars will pick you up in ten and take you home. And if you know what kind of curry you’d like, from whom?”

“Aw, now, Mycroft, no, now you don’t have to…” Lestrade felt the predictable flush of embarrassment. He was working class, he was male, he was a “good bloke.” He expected no favors, and wasn’t surprised that he didn’t often get any.

“I know I don’t have to,” Mycroft cut in. “I can, though. Now—what sort of curry?”

Lestrade wavered for a moment, considering arguing longer. Then he sighed. “Pure comfort food—nothing much, yeah? Chicken tikka masala, raita, and a boatload of naan. That would just about see me through.”

He was surprised to hear the suggestion of a wan smile in Mycroft’s voice. “Ah, yes. Sounds good. I may get some myself.” He sighed. “I should probably be as strong-minded as you are, and insist on my own Friday night off.”

“Do it,” Lestrade said. “Unless staying in is gonna save the free world.” He smiled a crooked smile, knowing that in Mycroft’s case this was sometimes only too true. “Give yourself a treat.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Mycroft said. “Now—my apologies for failing to respect your already too-extensive hours. Close up, and be ready to meet the car. My best, DI Lestrade. Have a good evening.”

“Better than it was going to be, anyway. Lift home, curry on the way. Thanks. Night, Mycroft.” He closed the connection, pocketed the phone, and sighed in relief. It took only a minute to clear away his desk—or at least to do the ritual hand-waving over the heaps of reports and paperwork that stood in for ever actually clearing away his desk. He grabbed his overcoat, and cut through the main room, dodging Sally when she approached with a fist full of files, with a tight, focused look on her face. “No, Sal. Goin’ home. Already done time and overtime. Need a bit of rest.” He blew past her, ignoring the look of tired frustration. Let her figure out her own answer to too much work on a Friday night. “I’ve got a ride meeting me and a curry on the way…and nothing’s keeping me here.”

The black car was prompt. The driver blessedly silent behind his wall of glass. Home was—well. It was home, for whatever that was worth: no more than a shabby flat in a mediocre neighborhood, with a sitting room opening onto a galley kitchen, a Spartan bathroom, a bedroom, and a niche that the advert had claimed could be a “second bedroom or an office,” which was a blatant bit of fantasy if ever there was one. It did serve to hold a desk, he supposed, which was about all you could ask of a former closet with one wall knocked out. The place came  furnished in unappealing second hand, long on durable brown plaid synthetics.

It was a decent enough place to sleep.

Lestrade stretched, ditched his coat, and scrubbed his hands over his face, heeling his palms into weary eyes, scritching his fingers over his scalp. He slipped out of his jacket, popped a second button on his shirt, then reconsidered and dragged out of the whole outfit, digging through the basket of clean, unfolded clothes at the foot of his bed, never destined to actually make it to the dresser. He pulled out soft, loose jogging pants and a well-worn T. He thought about a shower, and decided he wanted to save it till after the curry and before bed: no worries if he dripped or spilled, and a perfect way to relax before sleep, lacking the willing totty.

He couldn’t believe he’d said that to Mycroft Holmes, he thought with a groan and a rueful smile. Yeah, the man was old enough to understand wanting a simple, comforting shag at the end of a rubbish week. If Sherlock spoke true, he even availed himself of the pleasure, much to his younger brother’s dismay. But, still…not what you said to your boss as you turned down an assignment, and definitely not what you said to as prim and proper a man as Mycroft Holmes.

The doorbell pealed just as Lestrade had put the kettle on for a cuppa to go with the curry—and popped the cap on a cider as well.

“Yeah, yeah, on my way,” he called, “half a mo’.” He slipped through the sitting room and opened the door, and froze, jaw half open.

“They had boti kebab that smelled good, so I got you an order of that, too. And rice pud. They do a nice job of it at my place.”

Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway, without his coat, without his jacket, without his waistcoat and pocket watch, in a rumpled shirt with no tie, looking weary as a month of can’t-sleep midnights, with a cluster of carrier bags in one fist.

“You didn’t have to bring it yourself,” was the first thing out of Lestrade’s mouth. He stared at the other man, then blurted, “God, you look knackered.”

“I gave in to the temptation of picking some up for myself, and it seemed foolish to make someone else bring them by when I had the car,” Mycroft said, and his eyes closed. “And, yes. Knackered about covers it.”

“Come in, come in. I’ve got tea on the way and can pop you a cider,” Lestrade said, stepping back, suddenly unable to worry about the drab flat in the face of Mycroft’s exhaustion. “You can eat here, and then go on home.”

Something flickered on Mycroft’s face, then was gone, hidden by a mix of weariness and his usual calm. “Very well. I’ll send the car home for now.” He lifted the burden of carrier bags. “Where do you want them?

“Counter of the kitchen?”

Mycroft nodded and walked heavily over to the counter. He eased the bags down, taking time to make sure they all landed flat and steady. Then he stopped long enough to key his phone and dismiss the driver. He looked up and gave a faint smile when Lestrade pushed a mug of tea into his hands afterward.

“Sorry it’s not in the good china,” Lestrade said. “Sorry it’s just PG Tips.”

“I’ve been known to fall on my knees and give thanks for hours-old stewed office tea,” Mycroft said, taking a deep draw of the mug. “PG Tips is luxury in comparison.”

“Hard to imagine,” Lestrade said with a chuckle, leaning his bum against the counter and drinking his own. “You always seem a bit posh for stewed office tea.” Or for falling to his knees… not that Lestrade was about to say that in a million years, no matter how tired he was…

“Posh only counts if you’ve let it keep you in purdah,” Mycroft said. “Even the royals make sure their children experience cheap tea from the caf, and a bit of rough and tumble. It’s not like I’ve had what could honestly be considered a sheltered career. At least, not until recently, when I had a bit of say in the matter.” He tugged on one of the carrier bags, peered in, and said, “This one’s raita and rice pud.” He slipped a hand in, and drew out a carton. “Raita?”

“God, yes.”

They divvied up the meal between them, then discussed the limited choices, opting for collapsing on the sofa only after careful consideration of the inherent advantages of eating standing at the galley counter. In the end exhaustion won over easy clean-up.

“You don’t need to pretend the place is pretty,” Lestrade said, carrying a load of boxes to the coffee table. “Place came with the stuff, and it’s right awful.”

“I wouldn’t presume to judge,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah, you would. It’s a nightmare. ‘S all right: I’m pretty much only here to sleep and shower.”

Actually it wasn’t even good at that: a hard, single-wide daybed in the bedroom, an old footed bathtub with an overhead on a hose in the bath, with low water pressure and a mediocre water heater. But it was sufficient.

The sofa was small, and sagged in the middle. The men were too close, shoulders brushing, thighs repeatedly coming in contact as gravity pulled them together.

“Sorry,” Lestrade said, trying to draw back and failing more than he succeeded.

“Not a problem,” Mycroft replied. He snorted. “More human contact than I’ve had in months. Do it again and you’ll have to charge me for it.” He scooped up lamb korma with a piece of naan, and shoveled it in, licking his lips after.

Lestrade snorted, and watched the tongue swab for gravy. He handed over a stick of boti kebab. “No charge. You brought the dinner, after all. I can fall down the sofa all night for that.”

“I…” Mycroft cleared his throat, and then said, “Could you? Really?” There was a wistful tone in his voice, a bit too tired for hope, but well short of despair.

Lestrade stopped, frowning, trying to sort out what Mycroft meant. “I…”

“Never mind,” Mycroft said, and handed him the bag of naan. “Tired and silly, I’m afraid.”

Lestrade didn’t take the bag. Then, just as Mycroft’s hand wavered and he began to draw it back, he reached out and stroked the underside of his wrist with a single finger, trailing it slowly up to the heel of his palm. Mycroft’s eyes closed, and he drew in his breath.

“I…see.” Lestrade considered. He sighed. “Maybe. We’ll see. Send me some of that saag paneer, yeah?”

His mind, he thought, was too slow for firm answers. Curry, he had thought, and willing totty, and a shower and bed. The idle dream of a tired man looking for simple comforts.

Somehow the thought of Mycroft as “willing totty” was a bit mind-blowing, in spite of having known his orientation.

He risked a glance over. Mycroft’s face was, if anything, more tired than it had been on arrival. Well—the man probably thought he’d just been given a polite “hell, no, thanks anyway.”

“We had three bad domestics, this week,” Lestrade said. “Shouldn’t have been complicated, but would have been horrible anyway. One, though, was in an immigrant family. Father did it, which would have been obvious. So they tried to cover for it. He’s the head of the family, he’s the man, and he’s got the big income. And ‘she was asking for it,’ I guess. Wanted to go out with her friends. Wanted to wear makeup. He started hitting. Hit too hard. So they tried to cover it up—tried to blame the older sister who moved out a month ago. Bad influence. She’s a big girl—with more evidence they’d have pulled it off. Taking it apart, closing off all the excuses, proving who did what…” He scooped up chicken tikka masala and ate, thinking. “All of it horrible. The grandmother afraid her family is turning into monsters, whether they leave the old ways or cling to them. She didn’t seem to know who was worse, her granddaughter for being a ‘little whore’ and shaming them all, or her son for turning into a beast and beating the girl to death. The wife was wailing, but it was hard to tell if it was for her daughter, or her husband, or because she was afraid now they’d be sent back. Or go broke and never manage to crawl back.”

Gravity was at work again, and the sofa had slowly dropped Lestrade close to Mycroft, thigh to thigh, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. He didn’t pull away this time.

Mycroft didn’t either. “There are days I can almost sympathize with those of our citizens who beg for some kind of check on immigration,” he said. “Not for race, or for cultural purity, but to give us all the time and resources to manage the changes in a civil fashion. On both sides.”

“Yeah, right. We’d just have more issues of illegals coming in. Pass me the little cucumber salad? If you don’t mind me snarfing some from your order?”

“I’ve been snarfing your raita,” Mycroft said, with a small smile in his voice, and handed over the little waterproof box of kachumber—cucumber, tomatoes, onion, and hot pepper in a lemon dressing. He frowned. “Yes…I suppose ‘snarfing’ is a word. Or it should be. Isn’t it?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care. You understood me,” Lestrade said, taking the box. “God, that’s good.” He sighed, happily. “ _This_ is good. It’s all good.” He took a deep drink of tea.

“One of our people was taken down,” Mycroft said, softly. “In North Korea. In theory he wasn’t supposed to be there. But someone must keep an eye out, after all. His parents escaped with the family when he was fifteen. He volunteered for service with us because he knew how hard it is to find people who can blend. North Korea’s such a closed society: it’s not enough to know the language and wear the right clothes. Even tiny cues tell people you don’t belong, and then you have to know the right way to explain why you don’t belong. He was a good man. He wanted to help—England, and in his own way he wanted to help North Korea. He thought they were better off if we knew, and understood, than if we didn’t, you see. No stupid decisions made out of ignorance and arrogant prejudice.” He stirred, and Lestrade could feel the short, hard shiver people make when they’re holding back sudden pain or grief. “It wasn’t even a North Korean agent who took him out. We think it was a Russian,” he said, sadly. “And it’s all top secret. Classified to a fare-thee-well. His parents will know—but even they won’t know everything.”

“One of your own?” Lestrade asked.

“I trained him, yes. The first I worked with after Sherlock…stopped working with us directly.”

Lestrade nodded, and took another bite of the kachumber. “Hard when it’s one of your own.”

“Yes.”

A glance sideward showed a Mycroft-face of startling innocence and pensive…no, not exactly surprise. But he looked on his own emotions, his own memories, with something verging on sad, wry wonder. Lestrade felt himself grin a little, charmed by the bemusement in the other man.

“You don’t let yourself think about how you feel much, do you?”

“It’s not precisely an advantage in my field,” Mycroft said, and bent over the box of korma.

“You need more tea,” Lestrade said, and left with their mugs before Mycroft could reply.

When he came back he sat close, sparing the sofa and the gravity the effort.

“Why me?” he asked, as they finished the last of their meal.

He was amused to be given only a shrug, and a face turned down so that all he saw was a scrap of profile, the curl of an ear, the high, curved bay of a forehead.

“Really. Man like you can look anywhere.”

Mycroft turned, then, and gave him a long, reproving look. “Oh, do be serious. A man like me can look almost nowhere. Between personal peculiarities and security issues I can usually select from a small list of known rentals and an even smaller list of fellow professionals I can mostly trust not to turn on me.”

“So…why me? I’m not for rent, and so far as I know you’ve not had me checked out for my security status as a shag.”

Mycroft fiddled with the little plastic fork that had come with the meal. Lestrade decided he wasn’t getting an answer, and accepted the fact. He started gathering up empty boxes, sealing them so no last drips of sauce would escape, then shoving them into the carrier bags they’d come in.

“You said, ‘curry, willing totty, a shower, and a good night’s sleep.’ And all I could think was ‘That sounds bloody good.’ And then I thought, ‘I’d love that, too.’ And then I thought, ‘I could give him that much.’ And then I thought I’d really like to give you that much. That’s all. No more. No big secret. It just—sounded so good. So I took a chance. Logically it seemed certain that at the very least we’d both get an evening off and a carton of curry, you see, even if all that happened was you thanked me at the door and I went home with my korma alone.”

Lestrade shot a glance sidewise. Mycroft was looking down into his empty hands, cupped as though to receive a blessing that wasn’t ever going to arrive. His face looked as forlorn.

So very, very bright, he thought, and so very, very stupid. As if I wouldn’t in a minute…

“Hey, turn your head,” he said, and when Mycroft did he reached out and wiped away an entirely fictional dab of korma sauce from the corner of Mcyroft’s mouth with his thumb. Before Mycroft could catch him in the lie, he popped his thumb into his mouth as though to suck away the sauce. “Can’t leave you all smudged,” he said, grinning.

Mycroft’s face ran through an entire series of expressions, one after another: startled, embarrassed, puzzled, then, slowly, aware. He met Lestrade’s eye. “Oh.”

“It does sound good, doesn’t it?” Lestrade said, softly, but with a smile. “Simple pleasures, yeah? But I gotta tell you, my bed’s the size of a postage stamp, and my shower’s only a bit better.”

Something flickered, deep in blue eyes. “I can deal with that.”

“So, then,” Lestrade murmured, finding himself smiling more than he’d thought the night could possibly warrant, “what are we, then—you’re my willing totty and I’m your bit of rough?” He felt the stir of excitement flood him, happy chemistry teasing him out of weariness to interest “Can’t say I’m all that good at rough…”

“No, nor I,” Mycroft said, amused. “I’ll be your willing totty if you’ll be mine.”

“I could work with that.”

They hesitated, then.

“Any preferences?” Lestrade said, uncertain. “Only—I’d kind of like to have a bit of a cuddle first, yeah?”

Mycroft nodded. “I…could provide that. Willingly.” He gave a shy smile. “I’d…” He stopped and looked uneasily away.

“What?”

Shrug. “Given a choice I’d prefer to bottom, tonight, if it matters. If that’s what we do.”

“I’m clean if you are. We can bareback.”

“I’m clean.”

“Then you’re on. I’ll top. You want that to mean…I don’t really do much kink. Dom-sub...”

Mycroft’s head shook. “No. Not first night. And not with either of our training and experiences. And not really my pick. Just…” He grimaced, then, and Lestrade could see him censoring himself. “No. Just top is good.”

Lestrade could see the longing for something more, almost like a ghost superimposed on Mycroft’s image—a small, sad little ghost.

He was not a stupid man, though. Nor inexperienced. Nor averse to what he thought might be wanted.

He pulled Mycroft close, taking the lead without asking—and was answered when Mycroft melted into the embrace with a sigh. Not dom-sub, then, just someone to take the lead…which probably was a rare luxury for Mycroft Holmes, and something precious on a weary night. Lestrade had nights that was what he wanted, too, but tonight what he wanted was someone willing—someone whose actions indicated an actual desire to put themselves in the situation with him. Mycroft’s molten surrender more than satisfied that longing—Lestrade felt desired. No…he felt damned well yearned for.

Mycroft soon proved that Lestrade’s lead was no bad thing—he knew the game, but clearly didn’t have all that much experience in giving himself over to it. He was a bit shy, a bit awkward when Lestrade drew them into their first kiss. Each step seemed new to him…and Lestrade soon realized he had to slow down a bit to let Mycroft adapt and enter into the action. Once he had, though, he wasn’t just a fast learner, but a driven one, moaning into Lestrade’s mouth as they kissed, arching under an exploring hand, returning an embrace with strong arms. Each question whispered was answered with a hoarse, “yes,” and followed with clear longing to dance the dance.

Beyond the shyness, he was a delightful partner—accepting, and, as they relaxed with each other, he proved to be playful and mischievous, flirtatious, and, to Lestrade’s amazement, merry. He had a wicked smile, and his blue eyes laughed as they floundered on the sagging sofa and clumsily undressed each other.

“Bed,” Mycroft suggested, firmly, as they wallowed in the center divot for the umpteenth time.

“Small. Hard. We’ll be crowded…enough you may find me topping you just to find space,” Lestrade warned him.

“Then by all means, the bed,” Mycroft said, grinning.

The bed was small. It was hard. It was quickly obvious that, if nothing else, it enforced intimacy. Lestrade propped his head up on his hand, leaning on his elbow, and wrapped the other arm around Mycroft, pulling him close. He considered asking if they were crazy—two men of their age, in their professions, at their level of authority, with Sherlock and his little mob of demented disciples forever hanging between them, under their joint care—were they insane to give way on a bad night after a rotten week, and fuck like there would be no tomorrow to reckon with?

“Are you sure you want this?”

“Are you?”

Mycroft’s voice made his mind up—it was so much the sound of a good child knowing that the answer will be no, and the plans for the party will be set aside, the trip to the zoo canceled, because really, there were always more important priorities. Not a fierce, angry child like Sherlock must have been, who’d have roared out his resentment and demanded the treat regardless. No—the kind of child who’d grown to be Mycroft, who might sulk and pout but who’d give way, because duty, and decency, and devotion always trumped desire.

“I’m sure,” he said, “I want it. You can’t tell?” He rocked his erection against Mycroft’s hip, and leaned to nuzzle his neck. “You’re driving me crazy.” Which was true—but if the decent, dutiful voice of Mycroft hadn’t called to another sad, dutiful child, whispering, “Please say yes,” even while offering to accept a “no,’ he might have backed off. How could he deny both of those longing child-lovers, though—himself and Mycroft, both sighing and being honorable hermits in sorry-ass solitude.

“I’m sure,” he said again, and stretched his neck until he could nip at Mycroft’s earlobe, kiss the tender skin under his ear. “God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured. “Beautiful, beautiful posh totty. Hot and willing, just what I wanted.” He was surprised to feel the shiver go through Mycroft as he whispered the words; to hear the faint, choked back “ah” at the dirty compliment. He’d expected that might be too far for prim Mycroft. Instead it seemed to have set something off. He considered, then took a risk, and whispered again, as he fondled Mycroft’s arse and traced deep into the crack of his bum, “Oh, you like that, don’t you? Like being a willing, sweet bit of posh totty for tonight? Sweet, sexy, needy, and me knowing it.” Mycroft’s breath staggered, and he squirmed against Lestrade, cheeks clamping—but not trying to pull away. “You’re enjoying it—the dirty talk, the pushy hands?”

Mycroft buried his face against Lestrade’s shoulder, but nodded. “Uh….”

“Yes?”

“Yes.” Then, as though fighting for both focus and fairness, he added, “You?” He didn’t seem to be able to say more.

“Want you to talk dirty to me?”

Mycroft nodded.

“Not a big deal for me, love, if it’s hard for you.”

Another nod.

“Let it be, then. And if I push too far into trash-talk, say.”

One more nod, then Mycroft turned his face up and attacked Lestrade’s mouth, giving him a kiss that started dry and controlled but that turned wetter and messier than either man planned. Mycroft let his hand slip down to tease Lestrade’s cock, and he whispered, “God, lovely.”

Lestrade could see his lover turn pink. “Really you don’t have to…”

“But it is,” Mycroft said, and his eyes suddenly laughed. “I’m looking forward to getting to know this fine specimen quite a lot better soon.”

“You really are a hot little tart, aren’t you?”

“Mmmm.” Mycroft shivered again, and then rocked against Lestrade, his own erection firm and tipped with moisture. “Apparently.”

“Sexy little brat.” Lestrade inched down and nipped a nipple, pressing Mycroft’s cock into the soft, smooth skin of his stomach. “Going to roger you into this hard, nasty mattress, sweetheart. Make you moan.”

Mycroft did moan, then, as if to prove that there were higher goals to strive for.

Lestrade slipped his arm down and fished under the bed for the bottle of lubricant he kept there for slow nights when he was either awake enough to enjoy a good wank, or so tightly wound that, even exhausted, he needed one to sleep. He fumbled it up, known that it wasn’t a sexy item really—a frugal king-size bottle, old enough and grungy enough from trace goo left behind and from storage among the dust bunnies as to constitute a turn-off in its own right. For the first time he repented having been thrifty—or at least having chosen a large bottle rather than an industrial-size bulk carton of more elegant tubes. He pumped a handful of gel onto his finger tips, dropped the bottle back to the floor, and slipped his fingers between Mycroft’s cheeks.

Mycroft gave a groan that came from somewhere deep and oceanic, and buried his face in Lestrade’s hair, then followed with a mewling little cry of pleasure and anticipation. His fingers raked softly over the velvety crop of Lestrade’s hair, stroking and sighing. Then one hand slid down, and fingers traced Lestrade’s lips, slipping inside when Lestrade opened to grant access. He thrust against Lestrade’s tongue, setting a rhythm that matched the pulse he’d set under way against Lestrade’s stomach, cock and fingers in sync.

It caught Lestrade off guard, thrilling him, surprising him. “Uh…” He couldn’t talk, but he let his tongue and his own fingers announce how hot he found it.

For the first time he felt secure in his sense that Mycroft wasn’t a virgin—the thrusting fingers, the pressing cock, and an arsehole easily penetrated all insisted that, no matter how shy and reserved this man was, he’d not denied himself entirely, either in real life or in fantasy. Limited, almost certainly—denied, though? Definitely not.

Mycroft knew how to relax and let Lestrade in; soon he was three fingers in with a certain knowledge that Mycroft had made an effort to clean and empty himself before coming over—an act of consideration and longing optimism that once again assured him the man had wanted this. Had wanted him. Mycroft might later judge the night unwise, or reckless—but at least Lestrade would know it had been hoped for, reckless though that might be.

He wasn’t even sure he’d mind being thought of as a reckless indulgence. To be Mycroft Holmes’ mad, bad fling, a temptation that had darted past all his reserve on a weary, woeful night, luring him into heedless debauch. Whether regretted or not, he’d have been wanted in proportion to the almighty strength of Mycroft’s willpower, and would have won the match against his reserve. There couldn’t be many people, male or female, who’d held Mycroft Holmes in their arms and felt him vibrate with need and longing.

A man could die happy with a sin like that on his conscience, Lestrade thought with a smile. He delicately pulled free from Mycroft’s fingers, and kissed his palm, saying, “Are you ready, love?”

“Oh, God, yes…”

“Ok, let’s get you comfortable.”

Together they moved. Lestrade helped Mycroft slide down the mattress, then slipped a pillow under the firm, hard flare of his hips, where the fans of his pelvis swept wide over his bum. They angled him up, then rolled a second near-dead pillow into a neck-roll that Lestrade slipped behind Mycroft’s head, nesting it in the curved nape of his neck. He looked into Mycroft’s face. “You say if I get it wrong, or if I can make it better, yeah?”

“Yes.” Mycroft had the oddest, most radiantly still “bride on her wedding night” glow, patient and waiting.

“You want words? Like me to tell you how good you feel?”

Mycroft gave a little, shuddering gasp, and closed his eyes, nodded. “That would be…nice.”

Lestrade snorted softly. From any other man, he thought, that would have been, “Fuck, yes, you stupid tosser.” He stroked Mycroft’s forehead, tracing his hair’s line of retreat, loving it. He could imagine Mycroft as an old man, with no more than a fringe around the bottom of his scalp, and a smooth, radiant dome above. He’d still be beautiful, he thought.

He settled himself between Mycroft’s legs, arranging himself carefully, slipping  one arm behind his back. His mouth could reach Mycroft’s nipples—Lestrade checked, raising a shivery giggle and gasp from Mycroft when he did. His hand could reach Mycroft’s cock, and did so, caressing him once before retreating to set his own prick cautiously at Mycroft's’s near-drenched bum. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

Lestrade gambled; Mycroft was, he thought, already well-prepared, relaxed, and loose. He pressed just enough to be sure he was centered properly, then entered in one long, smooth drive, shaft flowing in smoothly until his pubic bone rested against Mycroft’s balls, and his own balls pressed against Mycroft’s cheeks.

Mycroft gave a little overwhelmed wail—not of pain, but of amazed pleasure.

“God, you’re so hot,” Lestrade growled. “Rutting for it. Hot as a bitch in heat. Hot as a bull at stand.” He drew back and thrust again. “You feel so goddamned good. Clamped tight, slick and ready.” His hand found its way back to Mycroft’s cock, and gripped. “Tight as this, sweetheart.” He wrapped his fingers, slick again with leftover lubricant, and pumped up and down, holding tight as he dared, massaging below Mycroft’s head, thumbing over the cap—a move that was all confident generosity, not hesitant or delicate in any way. He pumped again. “Feel that?”

The answer was inarticulate—but positive. Mycroft’s arse crimped tight, holding Lestrade firm even as he himself writhed upward, pushing into Lestrade’s fist.

“Yeah. That’s how good you feel,” Lestrade said, returning to his own intense, driving thrusts. “That’s right. You’re perfect. Perfect. Hot, willing little posh totty, sweet as sugar, best treat a man ever had, here in my bed on the worst damned night. Make up for a shit of a week, you do. God, a wonder, you! Fucking sweet, sexy gift, you—Jeez, look at you. Enough to make a man weep.” And as he spoke he heard his own voice quaver, and realized he could—he could weep for the sweetness of it. The generous miracle of a willing, beautiful partner crying out in his bed on a night when he’d expected nothing—less than nothing. Loneliness and exhaustion and whatever the hell a man felt when it wasn’t despair, because Lestrade had refused despair as an option long before, but when there wasn’t any hope, either—when Pandora’s box was empty, and all the dreams seemed to have died.

The smell of sex surrounded them—the smells of him, and of Mycroft, the cloying-clean smell of the lubricant, the heavy funk of sweat and pheromones and pre-cum. He looked up, intending to nip at Mycroft’s nipples, but found his lover’s hands were already there, stroking and pinching. Mycroft’s face was crumpled tight with need, and he gasped and panted, the flush turning his fair skin a mottled, sweaty mess—but the passion was so clear, so complete, that Lestrade was overwhelmed with the beauty of it. The earthy reality.

“More,” Mycroft gasped.

Lestrade wasn’t sure if he meant words, or thrusts, or the grip on Mycroft’s cock. He didn’t care—he provided all, eyes fixed on Mycroft’s face as he slowly toppled into the whirlpool.

“That’s it, sweetheart. God, look at you. God, you’re so hot.” He caught his breath, and said, longing, “You want it. You want _me_ …” It was as much a question as a statement—a question answered by the responsive push of Mycroft’s hips and the steady seep of his cock, and the joy-agony of his face as he edged nearer and nearer to orgasm.

“Soon.” It was a single word, loaded with meaning. “ _Soon_!”

“Yeah. Ok, sweetheart. With you. Hang on, now.” Lestrade let his hand go on automatic, as he drove himself into his own final stages, muttering only, “Sweet, so sweet, so good, so good, oh, fucking….Goooooooo—“ and the rest of the blasphemy was lost in a deep roar, matched by Mycroft’s own howl of release.

When his brain began to return from the neighboring dimension, Mcyroft was still there, panting, his chest heaving up and down under Lestrade’s head. He could hear the faint gasp. Mycroft was slick with sweat. One hand lay on Lestrade’s shoulders, stroking gently, tenderly, absently, as though he could no more resist than a man can resist fondling a good dog’s silken ears.

“That was…amazing.” Mycroft said it with much the same awe that John Watson evoked with each new deduction of Sherlock’s. “That was just… I can’t… That was amazing.”

“Uh,” Lestrade managed. “You, too. Just…yeah.” His cock was soft, but not yet fallen from its secure place in Mycroft—the feeling was lovely, a precious after-note, comforting and safe. No need to pull out and secure the rubber. No need to pull out and relieve his lover of an unwelcome presence. No push forcing him out, or pull leaving him behind.

He thought about it—the luxury of it. There were few men he’d trust to tell him if they were clean or not. For that matter, not all that many he’d trust to even know with any accuracy. Mycroft, he knew, would be clean, be sure of it, and say if he wasn’t. Likewise Mycroft wouldn’t let Lestrade linger, lying across him, nestled deep in him, if he didn’t so choose. Nor would his fingers trickle so gently over Lestrade’s shoulders, or trace whorls over the velvet crop of his hair.

“This was good,” he said, softly. “Better than the car home. Better than curry. This was perfect. Thank you.”

He felt a slight start—Mycroft’s stomach muscles tightening for a flash of a second, his back straightening. “Oh. I… I was glad to do it, Lestrade. No thanks necessary. The reverse, if anything. You’re quite splendid yourself.” The last was said with slight uncertainty, the first traces of his prim delivery beginning to seep back into his tones. “It was…” He lingered, then said on a sigh, “Magnificent. It was magnificent.”

Lestrade knew why he wasn’t struggling to rise or make his way to the shower or the loo. He was less sure why Mycroft didn’t. Yet there they stayed, Lestrade lying heavily over Mycroft’s body, Mycroft staying so still that they never slipped apart below. Lestrade cautiously stretched his neck and mouthed softly at the nipple just in front of his nose. Mycroft murmured, fingers stroking gently. Lestrade was stunned when, with exquisite care, Mycroft raised one long leg and cautiously hitched it up over Lestrade’s calf, trapping him with the turn of his ankle, still never jarring his spent lover loose. Neither spoke. At last gravity and normal sphincter pressure had their way, and Lestrade's cock slipped free.

Both men sighed, softly.

Lestrade forced himself to sit up. He took Mycroft’s hand.

“Come on, sweetheart. Shower’s this way. Let me help clean you up.”

Mycroft nodded.

It was a good shower. Quiet, tender. Lestrade remembered to grab fresh flannels from the cupboard, and between them they wiped each other off under the lazy, low-pressure stream of tepid water—water that usually annoyed the hell out of Lestrade, but that seemed comforting and perfect. It provided a placid, peaceful flow running gently over two lovers trying to find a way to say, “Thank you,” and “Yes, all right, good-bye” to each other after an evening Lestrade knew he, at least, would remember long, long after the front door closed.

He wanted to say, “We’re still going to be able to work together—aren’t we?” But he knew himself, and he knew Mycroft, and he knew they would. He had a sudden sense that they could live together for years, screw each other to this kind of shattering climax nightly, and still manage to report to work the next day able to maintain their focus and the boundaries of professional respect. He wanted to say, “Stay.” He knew in his heart that staying hadn’t been part of the gift…or of the original, fortuitous statement of desire. His original dream had been an easy trip home, a good dinner, a quick and happy screw with someone who didn’t much mind, a quick shower and a drop into deathlike sleep. It seemed greedy to now want Mycroft to stay, to sleep beside him on the horrible little bed, to wake with him and make the morning seem alive and inhabited, rather than the silent crypt Saturday mornings usually presented.

He helped Mycroft dry off, then wandered the little flat with him, finding socks and shoes and shirt and trousers and pants. The two seemed unable to resist a soft touch in passing, a quick unheralded kiss. Mycroft picked up the carrier bags of empty curry containers and tossed them in the galley trash. Lestrade went to his bedroom and came back wrapped in short cotton [happi coat](http://www.goodsfromjapan.com/images/7538l.jpg) printed with [gaudy little foxes](http://www.modes4u.com/en/kawaii/p14063_beautiful-black-fox-animal-fabric-by-Timeless-Treasures.html). When Mycroft’s brows shot up and a smirk bloomed, Lestrade chuckled and shrugged. “Gift from the women at the Met after the divorce. Apparently it amused them.”

“I can see why,” Mycroft said, eyes crinkling happy little crow’s-feet Lestrade had never seen on him before.

At last there was very little left to do or say.

The stood in the dingy little sitting room.

“Stay,” Lestrade blurted. “I mean, I know it’s a rotten bed and all. But…stay.”

Mycroft looked down uneasily, and said, “I didn’t think that was the nature of willing totty. ‘Easy come, easy go,” isn’t it?” He looked up, eyes holding back uncertainty very badly. “I can come back, some times. Willing totty.”

Lestrade wanted to cup his face and say, “To hell with this whole ‘willing totty’ thing. Stay. Try being mine.” Instead he nodded, reluctantly. “I’d like that—if you came back sometime.”

“Me, too,” Mycroft said, and Lestrade knew that alone was a greater gift than he had either right or reason to expect. A gift few would ever have been offered.

“Do,” he said. “Please. It was wonderful.”

They walked to the door. Mycroft turned, eyes apologizing. “I’m sorry. It was perfect. I just…”

Lestrade managed a small smile. He set his hand in the small of Mycroft’s back, aware of the thin cotton shirting, aware of the scent of soap, aware of the shy hesitation returning to his lover’s body. He leaned in and kissed him softly, then stepped back. “I know. ‘Easy go.’ Just come back as easily, yeah?”

Mycroft nodded, opened the door, and was gone.

Lestrade sighed, already thinking of him and missing him.

Such an unexpected gift—Mycroft Holmes arriving at his door, dressed in his shirt sleeves, as though he’d come away pell mell from a horrible day, only so he could be with Greg Lestrade, of all people. Weary, tired, battered Greg Lestrade, who wanted only a few pleasures he had no expectation of receiving.

Still, he thought, suddenly smiling, it had been a hell of a gift. A hell of a night. A hell of a screw. And Mycroft might come by again. He hoped he would.

He pulled the hapi coat closer, and headed for the bedroom, humming softly.

Then the door opened, bell unrung, and Mycroft Holmes said, “Easy go…easy come?”

Lestrade turned, smiling. “Stay.”

Mycroft smiled back. “I think I will.”


End file.
